How To Tail a Cat (8 page)

Chapter 15

A LITTLE FELINE ASSISTANCE

OSCAR’S NIECE BEGAN
folding the newspaper for her recycle bin, taking care not to disturb Rupert’s snoring heap as she creased the folds. She had almost summoned enough energy to head for the shower when she noticed a rustling sound coming from the kitchen.

The instinctive response was out her lips before she could stop it.

“Rupert?” she called out sternly.

A yawn floated up from the next cushion over. The orange tip of Rupert’s fluffy tail wiggled an “It’s not me” response.

The woman’s gaze immediately traveled from the furry mound sleeping beside her to the couch’s now empty armrest.

“Issy?” she called out in disbelief as the rustling continued. It was rare for her female cat to get into trouble. “What’s going on in there?”

Having cohabitated with the feline species for several years, the niece knew that a mysterious noise in an otherwise unoccupied room required immediate investigation. Few scenarios beginning with this fact pattern resulted in anything other than an enormous mess—although Rupert was usually the culprit of those crimes.

“Issy?” she repeated, her concern growing as the sound grew louder.

A garbled
mrrreow
brought the woman scrambling to her feet.

“Isabella . . .” the niece called out again as she heard the distinct sound of paws hitting the kitchen’s tile floor.

From his spot on the couch, Rupert cracked open an exculpatory eyelid and yawned loudly, as if to say, “Told you it wasn’t me.” Then he heaved out a sleepy sigh and rolled over onto his side.

Just then Isabella entered the living room with a green piece of paper clenched in her teeth.

Head held high enough to keep the paper from tripping her front feet, Isabella marched purposefully toward her person, all the while issuing a stream of muffled cat commentary. A moment later, she dropped the paper on the floor and looked up expectantly.

Perplexed, the niece bent to pick up the green flyer. It appeared to be from the paper bag that had contained that day’s fried-chicken cat treats. She had read the restaurant’s standard blurb many times before, so she had tossed the greasy sheet from the earlier package into the trash bin without looking at it.

But as her eyes scanned the writing on the lower half of the paper, she realized the language had changed.

“Well, Issy,” the woman murmured thoughtfully, her mind immediately speculating on the clue’s potential implications. “I believe someone’s trying to send us a message.”

Isabella gave her person a sarcastic look.

“
Mrao
.”

Chapter 16

THE STEINHART CONNECTION

HOLDING THE FLYER
from the fried-chicken restaurant in one hand, stroking Isabella’s silky head with the other, Oscar’s niece sank back onto the couch. A few smears of chicken grease blotted the printing, but the text was still readable.

The flyer began with the familiar introduction to James Lick, the talented piano maker from Pennsylvania who had wandered the globe, taking a tour of South America before eventually landing in pre–Gold Rush San Francisco. Once there, Lick made several prescient land deals in water lots along the shoreline that he eventually converted into a substantial fortune.

Oscar’s niece could recite the tale of the Millionaire Tramp from memory. She knew this portion of the restaurant’s regular flyer by heart. It was unchanged from the previous printings.

A second paragraph, however, had been added to that day’s edition.

• • •

THE NEW SECTION
of the flyer highlighted Lick’s many charitable contributions, including his sizable donations to the California Academy of Sciences.

Although Lick had eschewed the luxuries of fashion and fine food, he’d had no reservations about doling out funds for charitable organizations.

Lick had provided the fledgling Academy with an enormous multi-story building on Market Street. The Academy converted the structure, which had been used as a shopping emporium, into a museum, filling its open layout with its growing scientific collections.

The strategic location increased the new organization’s visibility, and San Franciscans flocked to the site. The skeletons of a T. rex, a wooly mammoth, and an African elephant were particularly enticing draws.

An Academy expedition had just left for the Galapagos Islands to gather more specimens for the museum when the 1906 earthquake hit, destroying both the building and the bulk of its contents.

Fortunately, the Academy had had the foresight to insure the structure. Using the proceeds from the insurance payout, a new headquarters was quickly set up in Golden Gate Park. Soon after the move, the facilities were expanded with funds from the estate of the Bavarian-born Steinhart brothers, Ignatz and Sigmund, to include the world-class Steinhart Aquarium.

• • •

THE NIECE LEANED
back into the couch, trying to imagine what kind of treasure her Uncle Oscar might have discovered that was associated with the Academy of Sciences.

She reread the selection, this time honing in on the last sentences.

“The Steinhart Aquarium,” she murmured out loud as she recalled her last visit to the place just a few months earlier.

• • •

ALMOST A HUNDRED
years after the Steinharts’ bequest, the aquarium continued to attract thousands of visitors with its creative displays of fishes, frogs, and other water-related creatures. It was a well-known Bay Area attraction, an integral part of the Academy’s Golden Gate Park facility.

The complex had recently reopened after an extensive renovation that had implemented much-needed improvements in earthquake stability as well as updated the overall design to give it a more modern feel.

If the niece remembered correctly, little of the aquarium’s original structure remained. Anything the Steinhart brothers might have secreted away in the old building was unlikely to have survived the rebuild.

The green insert fell from the woman’s fingers as her thoughts drifted inward and she wondered just what the proprietor of the fried-chicken restaurant was trying to tell her.

• • •

FROM HER PERCH
on the couch’s armrest, Isabella watched her person read the greasy piece of paper. Then the woman’s head rotated toward the ceiling, deep in thought.

With a sigh, Isabella shifted her gaze to the end table beside the couch. Blue eyes glittering, she stared at the brass lamp and its still unlit ceramic globe.

Oscar’s niece was going to need some additional feline assistance if she were ever going to get on the right track for this latest treasure hunt.

Chapter 17

THE SWAMP

AS ANOTHER DAY
disappeared into the western horizon, the darkness of early evening descended onto the secluded confines of Golden Gate Park. Thick stands of redwoods reached up to cover the cloudless sky, spreading their needle-filled branches to blot out the scattering of artificial light from the surrounding city.

In the center of the park, the glass-fronted, grass-roofed Academy of Sciences complex grew silent and still. A walk up the front steps, past the foyer’s fragile yet imposing dinosaur skeleton, revealed little in the way of activity. Most of the building’s creature inhabitants had drifted off to sleep.

But in the rear wing, where a brass balcony surrounded a large hole in the floor, a slight splash could be heard as the Academy’s showcase albino alligator hoisted his long, leathery body onto his heated rock.

Clive hummed happily to himself as the relaxing warmth radiated up through his spongy, wet belly.

• • •

THE STEINHART AQUARIUM
had seen numerous changes since it first opened its doors in 1923: refurbishments to its water-filtration systems, exhibit modifications, wing additions, and, in the wake of the damage caused by the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, a complete retrofit and rebuild.

The Steinhart’s original structure had been completely subsumed in the modern ecofriendly renovation. The aquarium section was now blended seamlessly into the planetarium, natural-history museum, and artificial rain forest that made up the rest of the complex.

The Swamp Exhibit, however, had remained a constant. It was one of the few features of the current building that carried back to the original design. The sunken tank ringed by its brass balcony of standing seahorses had stayed true to the Steinhart brothers’ early conception.

• • •

THE SEAHORSE BALCONY
had guarded countless alligators over the years, garden-variety green ones and rare albinos, but in the Academy’s long history, no alligator had captured the public’s imagination quite like Clive.

Due in part to the creativity of the Academy’s promotions department, Clive had achieved a local celebrity the likes of which San Francisco had never seen. Beloved by children from across the city, his fame had surpassed that of all other public figures, entertainers, athletes, and politicians.

• • •

CLIVE SNUGGLED SLEEPILY
against his rock, enjoying the evening’s peace and quiet. After a busy day of receiving the public’s admiration, he was ready for a good night’s rest.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought fondly of his little fans, their faces filled with awe and wonder, their curious minds abounding with questions. The slack-jawed expression he wore throughout much of the day—which some mistook for malaise—was really the reflection of his inner pride and satisfaction.

Every time he heard a docent describing his unique features to a fresh set of youngsters, he felt a pleasant glow swell in his chest. He truly relished his role as alligator ambassador.

The children’s jarring shrieks, of course, Clive could do without. Although it was impossible for him to imagine life without his youthful visitors, he felt a small modicum of relief at the end of each day when the last one had been escorted out the Academy’s front doors.

• • •

CLIVE WIGGLED HIS
lengthy frame, spreading his legs to maximize his body’s contact with the rock. He sighed contentedly as the warmth spread through his joints.

Given the limited options available to an albino alligator, he knew he’d scored the jackpot.

Gators of his kind were unable to survive in the wild. The albino’s white skin stood out against the dark background of its natural swampland habitat, making young hatchlings an easy target for prey. Any newborn albinos that managed to escape being eaten soon suffered from their depigmented skin’s sensitivity to direct sunlight.

In addition to these handicaps, most albinos had very poor eyesight, hindering their ability to hunt or scavenge for food. Clive, himself, was very nearly blind.

As a practical matter, timely discovery by one of the alligator farmers who routinely inspected the many nests scattered across the coastal wetlands was an albino’s only opportunity for survival. A long-term gig in a well-stocked aquarium was a one-in-a-million shot.

• • •

CLIVE CAST HIS
droopy eyes proudly around the perimeter of the Swamp Exhibit. The California Academy of Sciences was one of the most coveted albino alligator placements in the country. Despite the exhibit’s relatively small confines, he couldn’t help thinking he had the finest digs in town.

Beyond the heated rock, which was by far his favorite feature, he also appreciated the mist makers built into the tank walls just above the waterline that kept his delicate skin soft and moist. The artificial tree that stretched high above the tank cast enough shadow to mitigate any harsh sunlight that might permeate the skylights in the elevated roof. And, of course, the Swamp was stocked with plenty of turtles to keep him company.

Last but not least, there were the Academy alligator specialists, a busy team of scientists who catered to his every need. How many alligators, he wondered, had an entire crew of humans at their beck and call to keep them well furbished with floating fish pellets?

Clive’s stomach rumbled with the thought. He turned his head toward the far corner of the tank, where he’d stashed a pile of pellets from the last batch the scientists had thrown in before leaving for the night, but his legs didn’t move. He wasn’t quite hungry enough yet to go dig them up.

With another contented sigh, his chin dropped once more to the rock’s heated surface.

• • •

EMITTING A GRINDING
gator grunt, Clive shifted his weight so that he could wedge his right elbow against a hot spot near the rock’s center.

Having lived his entire life in a protected enclosure, his skin was generally clear of blemishes, scars, or scratches—with one exception. His right front paw was missing its outermost digit, leaving an exposed joint that occasionally twinged with arthritis.

Perhaps the main downside to living on display like this, Clive reflected with a painful wince, was your inability to choose your tank companions.

• • •

CLIVE’S TOE INJURY
was the result of a love match gone horribly wrong. Several months back, the aquarium had introduced a non-albino female alligator to the Swamp Exhibit in the hopes she and Clive might strike up a romance.

He had been open to the idea at first, but he had quickly changed his mind.

Mariah
, he thought bitterly. That was one temperamental alligator.

No sooner had the new alligator entered the swamp’s enclosure than she had proceeded to take over the place. After taking a massive bite out of one of the underwater supporting posts, she had mounted the heated rock—not to share, but to occupy completely. She hadn’t been the least bit amenable to his cordial attempts to discuss the matter or any of his offers of compromise.

In the ensuing territorial dispute, Mariah had snapped at Clive’s right front paw, causing it to bleed.

Immediately concerned, the Academy staff members swooped in and quickly transported Clive to a behind-the-scenes operating room. The next thing he remembered, he was waking up from anesthesia, minus one digit.

By the time Clive returned to the Swamp Exhibit, Mariah had been dispatched to a zoo. Since then, he had been content in his bachelorhood, socializing with the swamp’s amiable and nonthreatening turtles when he needed companionship.

Women
, he thought as he carefully rotated his right front leg to flatten his pared-down appendage against the hot spot.

• • •

STILL MUTTERING TO
himself about the moody Mariah, Clive’s eyelids fluttered to half-mast, and the first wheeze of a dozing snore buzzed through his snout.

He was on the verge of falling fast asleep when a movement at the balcony caught his attention.

Slowly, Clive roused his senses and focused his diminished vision at the swamp’s top rim. To Clive, the rocks and tree trunks inside his swamp were fuzzy images. He even had difficulty telling his turtles apart.

He could barely make out the blurry shadow creeping behind the row of standing seahorses, but the figure struck him as slightly different from those of the security guards that roamed the Academy at night.

Just then, a man’s husky voice whispered over the edge of the enclosure.

“Psst
,
Clive.”

This was followed by the familiar
splatting
sound of a fish pellet hitting the water.

“Over here.”

Clive needed no further encouragement. His stomach had awoken, this time roaring with hunger.

The alligator’s snapping jaw quickly found the disc floating near him.

Chomp
.